


Dancer

by CallMeElle



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Barry is still adorably nerdy., F/M, I have no idea what this was supposed to be, Iris is a stripper but it's tasteful I swear!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 16:39:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18014501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeElle/pseuds/CallMeElle
Summary: Janet still croons (dancin on the floor, feeling the slow groove, my mind is startin to burn, with forbidden thoughts) and Barry is looking at her like she is a star. Like she is lust and love and some deity all wrapped in brown skin and black fabric and iridescent sequins.





	Dancer

Dancer

_Wise men say only fools rush in_

_But I can't help falling in love with you_

 

When Iris is on stage, she pretends that it’s just her, alone, in front of her mirror.

  
She has a couple shots in her, the alcohol warming her from the inside. It helps, especially in what she’s wearing: a black two-piece set with sequins covering the bra, the front of her crotch, dotting the lines of the three bikini straps on either side of her waist. Her shoes match, black and tall, with multicolored rhinestones on the heels.

For a lot of the girls, it’s easy to get lost in this. Between the money, the men who think “no” just means _try harder_ , the way the spotlight hits when doing a solo, it’s easy to forget who you are in this business, to forget your own identity, your own integrity once you cross the threshold of Assets Gentlemen's Club. Despite this little foray into the less savory side of Central City, Iris always wants to be herself, in some capacity.

So she dons a robe--pink silk that covers only the most enticing parts of her--and she walks onto the stage. The bright light that draws attention to the gleaming dance pole is blinding; she cannot see much in the way of the crowd. It adds to her illusion, that it is just her and her body moving to her favorite songs. Nevermind the claps and jeers that emit from them when they see her; who hasn’t envisioned people cheering for them when they’re dancing in their rooms?

The beginning chords of the song play and, one hand on the pole, Iris tests it. It is cleaned between performances and she wants to make sure it’s dry enough to move along without losing her grip. It is, but the intro is good, it’s sultry, the piano and drums synchronized in a mid-tempo melody. It’s one that she likes, one that makes her hips move on their own accord. She circles the pole several times, manicured nails tapping in accordance with the beat, her other hand teasing at the belt of her robe.

_Girl, take it off for me; you know just what I want._

When the beat drops, she loosens the knot at her waist. The robe glides open, waving over her body like water until the two ends settle at her sides, leaving her on display. There is a wolf whistle, a plain out “whooo!” and, while Iris is used to this, the attention still sometimes takes her aback.

_It’s always hard to leave, this private show._

This is when Iris pretends that this is just for her. She dips into a squat, knees wide, her barely covered mound on exhibit for the man directly in front of her; he’s staring like he can see beneath the fabric of her panties.

_Let me see it, see it, let me see you take it off._

When she stands again, hands in the air, winding her hips as she does, her robe slithers off of her shoulders and to the floor. She turns around, walks back to the pole, her body moving like the song’s inside of her. She places both hands on the metal, one several inches above the other. She takes a deep breath--T.I is rapping from the speaker, something about imagining herself hanging halfway off a mattress--and she jumps, lifting herself off the ground effortlessly. Her legs scissor in the air and then they wrap around the pole in a slow twirl that brings her back to the floor. She does this a couple times more, makes sure her hair swings enough that it adds to the routine. Her moves are thoughtless, the music a part of her, and she thinks this is good, the adrenaline that rushes through her. It is in these brief moments that she can admit she sort of likes this, likes the feeling that freeing her body gives her.

She steps away from the pole, only for a few beats though. But, while she’s away, she plays with the audience, looking at them with unseeing eyes. They are all a blur: black and brown and white faces that all meld together, that all begin to look like the green paper they toss at her. She engages them nonetheless, moving across the stage in sensuous motions. She drops to her knees and leans into one with brown eyes, so close that he could bury his face in her breasts if he had half a mind to. She gets twenty dollars tucked into her bra for her efforts. She winks at the woman who’s standing beside him and she’s almost positive the red head blushes.

_Girl take it off for me; it’s always hard to leave, this private show._

Her finale is another few circles of the pole. She grips it tighter and begins to climb, her arms and legs wrapped around it like it’s a lover. When she is as high as she thinks she needs to be, she flips, holding her own weight as she lets her legs spread wide above her. Her legs scissor again as she wraps herself around until she’s upright. Then she begins an easy descent, legs wide until she drops into a split on the floor. She looks into the audience, then, when she hits the cold stage.

And that’s when she sees him. Iris doesn’t believe in love at first site. She doesn’t believe that chemistry is this instantaneous thing. It doesn’t make sense to just _look_ at someone and respond physically: heart beating off rhythm, breath coming in shorter, _butterflies fluttering_ in your belly. She doesn’t think that any of it is true, until she stares at the man staring back at her.

He looks to be in a trance, eyes wide, lips parted, the black of his suit jacket making his skin appear exceptionally pale in the dim light of the club. There is some color in his cheeks, she notes, and there is something that is so awestruck about his expression that Iris can’t help the smile that ticks up the corners of her mouth. He swallows, she can see that from where she stands, before he lifts his hands to his hair and runs long fingers through the tresses. It’s the last thing she sees before she hurries from the stage.

************

Backstage at Assets is chaos. There are a dozen women walking around in various stages of undress. She can see that Diamond finally got her nipples pierced like she’s been talking about getting for the past couple months and apparently, Star has convinced herself that shaving a star into her pubic hair is a good idea. She waves at them all as she makes her way to her mirror, set up further into the dressing room. She shares the space with another woman, Linda (though she goes by Lola when she’s dancing) but she’s not around when Iris drops into the seat.

“You were great out there,” Crystal--real name Caitlin--gushes as she walks past Iris’s table and Iris smiles a thanks at her through the mirror. For the most part, these are nice girls, girls who dance for various reasons: to afford school, to pay off massive debts, because they want to. Iris is the former but she knows it shouldn’t matter why. Besides, who is she to judge when she’s in the same boat?

Iris doesn’t have another stage performance for another hour so she changes into something that covers a little more of her. It is a backless bodysuit, the bottom half black and full, the top part covered in glamorous iridescent sequins. Her long, dark hair is in a high ponytail so that her bare back is visible.

She stands to step into tall, strappy pumps and is just about to go out onto the floor to make some rounds when the manager, Mason, comes to a stop beside her vanity.

“Iris,” he speaks. Mason is gruff and not a little bit crabby, but is quite possibly the best part of this job for Iris. He insists on calling them all by their actual names when he’s backstage with them, explaining this is a job like any other.

She looks up at him. “Yeah?”

“A change of plans for you tonight.”

“Oh?”

He nods in that way that makes Iris think he has set a limit of the amount of words he’s allowed to use in conversation and he never wants to go over.

“There’s some kind of tech convention in town,” Mason explains. “That always means rich nerds who want to throw money at women who would never look twice at them in real life.”

Iris waits patiently for Mason to get to the point.

“There’s one who has paid for a private room with you for a couple hours.”

Iris’s eyes bug. “A couple hours?”

Mason nods again.

In no way does Mason run something akin to a brothel. Private rooms are for individual dances with the music of the customer’s choice. Food and drink can be sent there as well. Iris knows that things do happen in those rooms--at the discretion of the customer and the woman who services them--but they act more as dates is the best way that Iris can explain it: a little dinner, a few drinks, a dance that gets the customer ready for whatever poor woman or man they’re going home to.

The rooms run at $100 for thirty minutes of privacy and Iris wonders just what the _hell_ this man thinks he’s going to get for the 400 dollars he is so easily shelling out.

“Mason,” she starts but he cuts her off.

“The rules are always the same,” he says to her. “If at any point you feel uncomfortable or this guy tries to make you do anything you aren’t willing to do, press one of the panic buttons.”

She nods in understanding.

“Room six in 15 minutes,” he says before placing what Iris is sure he thinks is a reassuring hand on her shoulder and walking back out into the club.

 

There is a Cardi B song playing when she struts out into the club. She likes the rapper and the song that’s playing ( _all I really wanna see is the money)_ and she bobs her head a little to the beat. She makes her way through the crowd, hips swaying because in the club, she always has to be _on._ Lola is on stage now and Iris watches for a moment as she drops down into a split and pops each ass cheek singularly. The men go wild, Iris admits that that’s a good move, and she continues on through the club.

She makes a stop at the bar where Eddie is tending the corner. She sidles up to the edge of the bar and gives him her best grin.

“Hi Eddie,” she nearly purrs.

Eddies grins at her, blonde and blue eyed and gorgeous.

“I’m not buying whatever you’re selling, West,” he says.

She affects a pout. “I just want to know who I’m dealing with.”

He tosses her a bottle of water and she smiles gratefully, twisting the top and chugging the entire thing.

“Which room again?” he wonders.

“6.”

“Oh yeah, the nerds,” he says. He points discreetly to a group at a booth in the left corner. There are about 4 or 5 men there, a couple in suits, others in jeans and sci-fi t-shirts. “The Hispanic one with all the hair paid for his friend, a tall, lanky one who doesn’t seem to know how to use all of his limbs yet.” He pauses for a moment to grab what looks like grenadine from a shelf and pours some into whatever he’s making.

“They seem nice enough,” he continues. “They’ve been buying drinks, not harassing any of the girls. And the one in the room looks pretty harmless.”

Iris feels some of the stress in her stomach ease. “Oh good.”

“You’ll be fine, kid,” he tells her. “And if he does try anything…”

“Panic button,” Irish finishes for him. “I know.”

She leaves and heads across the room. There are about four or five women working the floor, giving lap dances, and she winks at one who catches her eyes. She walks through a curtain that leads to a long hallway. There are 8 rooms down the hallway, four doors on either side. She counts them as she goes, _1, 2, 3, 4, 5,_ and when she gets to 6, she pulls out the key and inserts it in the lock.

The rooms are all decorated similarly, though the color schemes do vary. This room is red and black with hints of gold throughout and she finds that she likes it; she’s never used this room before. A curtain cuts the room in half and the part that is visible from the door looks like a living area. There are two overstuffed chairs on either side of a dark wooden table, a tall lamp sitting on it. This is to the left. On the right, there is a dining table. It is covered in a black tablecloth. Atop it, there is a bottle of tequila and two glasses, as well as a small container of limes and a bucket of ice. Some juices line the edge of the table. She smiles, knowing that Eddie must have sent these here for her. She knows he’s got a bit of a crush on her and though she doesn’t return it, she does appreciate how much he looks out for her.

The room is silent when she walks in, her _date_ nowhere to be found. The door shuts softly behind her and she calls out “hello?” She hears some shuffling from the other side of the curtain, the sound of something dropping, and then, moments later, she sees the curtain move as the person tries to find their way from behind it. Eyebrows raised, she waits as they wrestle with the curtain before finally emerging, stumbling over the bottom of the curtain.

“Hey, um, hi!” The man nearly squeaks as he comes to a stop by one of the chairs. Iris blinks, recognizing him as who she’d seen at the end of her song. She startles, clutching her hands together. He is tall and thin, but there is something about the way his pants taper to the length of his legs and the way his jacket stretches across his broad shoulders that tells Iris he is not just skin and bones.

“Hi,” she speaks, giving him that same sort of half smile she had a little while ago.

“I was just, uh, exploring.” He fidgets on his feet and does the hair thing, rubbing one hand through it as he looks at her, head tilted.

“Right.” She looks at him. “Find anything interesting?”

“There’s a whole bed back there,” he explains, as if she wouldn’t know. “And like, a bathroom.”’

She nods at him, obviously amused.

“This is…” he trails off as he takes a step towards her. “This is weird, right? This whole room thing? Do you do this often?” He throws his hands up and looks around. “What am I saying? Of course you do. This is your job and you’re really good at it and why wouldn’t you…”

“Would you like a drink?” she interrupts him, somehow knowing that he’ll keep rambling if she doesn’t stop him.

“Yes, please.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Barry,” he says. “Barry Allen.”

And she’s struck then, by just how good looking he is. His face is far prettier than his awkwardness should allow for: nicely shaped eyebrows over eyes that are a little blue with specks of green; high cheekbones and a strong jawline, faint moles dotting his nose, his jaw, disappearing beneath the collar of his dress shirt. His lips are thinner than she likes but they’re so very pink and they look soft. Before she can do something strange, like _touch him,_ she turns on the heels of her shoes and walks slowly to the table. She makes them both tequila cocktails, though hers with significantly less tequila, and when she swings around, she sees that he is staring at her. It is a gradual once-over, up the bare expanse of leg, tracing the curve of her waist, lingering at her cleavage. She can see him go red behind the ears, but there is a heat in his eyes that Iris wouldn’t have thought him capable. It makes her stand straighter, holding off the flare that threatens to settle in her belly.

“Here you go,” she says, handing the glass to him. “You should have a seat.”  She nods one of the chairs.

“Oh, after you,” he says, moving closer.

He actually stands at one of the chairs until she eases into the opposite one before he sits down. She watches him take a long swallow of his drink, mouth puckering from too much tequila. This swallow is audible.

“You’re okay?”

“Yes, I, uh… I have never done something like this before.”

“No?” She turns more so she’s facing him. “Never taken a stripper into a back room for a private show?”

“Um,” he chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Can’t say that I have.”

“And what made you change your mind today?”

She takes a sip from her own glass and he watches the movement before he speaks.

He does the self-deprecating laugh again. “It’s my birthday.”

“Really?” She places her glass on the table between them. “And there was no one you would have rather spent tonight with?”

He lifts his shoulders in what Iris knows he hopes is a nonchalant shrug. It isn’t and Iris makes note of the tension in his shoulders, in the way he slouches further in the seat. Without a word, she walks over to the table and pours them shots. There’s no salt but she picks up the cup of limes for them. Walking back over, she hands him the taller shot.

“Well, since we’re here and you’ve got me for the next hour and 45 minutes, happy birthday.”

They clink glasses and toss the shots back. She grimaces--no matter how much she likes the liquor, she’ll never be fond of the taste--and she sucks hard on the lime.

“So what’s that about?” she asks, flicking her tongue out catch a piece of lime stuck to her lip.

He frowns at the question. “What’s what about?”

“The two hour show.”

“Oh! Well, my friends thought it would be a good way to loosen me up.”

“And you need to loosen up?”

“Maybe,” he smiles, one side of his lips ticking up. “I don’t know. I got dumped a couple months ago and I’ve been in a sort of slump over it. A lot of my friends are in town for a convention and they all kind of convinced me that this would do it.”

“Naked women?”

“Ralph thinks there are few things that cannot be solved by a naked woman.”

“And is it working?” Iris asks. “Are you loosened up?”

He gives her another of the unsure shrugs that she’s beginning to find adorable.

“I don’t think so,” he says, finally. “I’m a little nervous.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Really?” He looks at her, eyes wide, and when he notices she’s still smiling at him, he blinks. “Oh, right. Joke.”

“Oh, come on, Barry: relax. It’s just me and you.”

“Hmm.” He hums, tapping his fingers on his thigh. “That’s probably why I’m nervous.”

Iris frowns over at him. There are not many men who accuse her of making them nervous, especially when she’s at work. Excited, sure. Aroused, definitely. There was even one guy who had extended his undying gratitude. Nervousness, though, assumes that she is in control. And don’t get her wrong, she is. She uses her body in the way that she wants, makes men feel what she wants them to. The difference, though, is also making them think that she caters to their whims, that she responds to their energies, does what they want her to. That leaves no room for nervousness, not in the way he seems to be feeling it.

“I’m making you nervous?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking over at her. “Yeah, you are. I, uh, saw you dancing earlier and I was mesmerized. Yeah, mesmerized is a good word. Because you were really good and really, really pretty and I,” he gives a soft chuckle. “I’m gonna shut up now.”

Iris doesn’t speak for a long moment, instead opting to watch him. She can’t say what she’s looking for in the moment. She can’t even say for sure she’s _looking_ for anything. She just knows that there must be meaning to the spark of _something_ she felt when she caught him staring at her after her song and the way her stomach keeps flipping when he manages to look at her for more than a few seconds. Maybe some music can cut out on whatever this thing is fluttering in her belly.

“How about I play something?” Not waiting for an answer, she stands up and moves over to the bluetooth system set up in the corner. “Is there something you want to hear?”

“Not really. Whatever you like is fine with me.”

He sips from his glass as she peruses the playlists on the music player. This is a gentlemen’s club run by, ahem, gentlemen, so the selections are not ideal. There aren’t many songs that don’t, in some way, ask a woman to just shake her ass. She chooses what she figures is not so bad, _throw it up throw it up, watch it all fall out,_ because who doesn’t like Rihanna. She turns it to a low setting, lets it act more as background noise than anything else. Barry has finished his drink and is sitting with his hands in his lap, looking for all the world like a lost little puppy.

Instead of taking her own seat, she sidles closer to him, plants herself on the arm of his chair. She crosses her legs, placing one arm beside her to steady herself. The move puts her legs against the soft fabric of his trousers; her feet knock against his. He doesn’t startle at her being so close, as she expects him to. Instead, he lets his eyes travel the length of her again. This time, they linger on her mouth and she tells herself it’s an unconscious act, licking her lips, leaning forward just a little.

“So birthday boy,” she speaks and his eyes lift to her face again. He watches her, waits for her to speak, and in that space of time, she feels caught in his eyes. This is definitely more than a few seconds and he looks at her like he sees something in her, something besides a woman he’d first seen dancing on a pole, something besides a woman a little unsure of who she is and what she wants and how to do anything besides study and dance. She attempts to take the attention away from herself.

“You’ve still got about an hour and a half to hang out with me. What do you want to do?”

“Well, what do you usually do?”

She lifts her shoulders. “It depends. Most people just want a private dance. You can get food sent here so sometimes people want to share a meal. Believe it or not, a lot of the times, it’s just sharing company.”

“And what’s the bed for?”

She smiles. “If the mood fits, sometimes it’s more than just sharing company.”

Barry’s cheeks flame and he shoots a look at the curtain that hides the bed.

“Is that common?”

“For me, not so much. Not that I judge any grown woman for doing what they want to do, but the mood has never been anything but professional for me.”

Except, she thinks, when he looks up at her like that.

“Do you like it?” he asks her. “Your job, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” she answers, though she’s not sure if that’s true. “When I get cute customers like you.”

His blush is worth it. She’s never seen someone blush as much as he seems to. He tries to change the subject.

“Is there something you like to do?” he asks. “When you aren’t working?”

She hesitates for only a moment, before she decides to tell him the truth. “Actually, yeah. I am a grad school student, studying journalism.”

“Oh wow, really?” He seems impressed. “That’s, wow. You must be really smart.”

Now it’s Iris’s turn to blush. “I don’t know about all that.”

“Graduate school? Doesn’t seem like a place for someone who isn’t.”

Iris shifts on the arm of the chair.

“And what is it that you do?” she wants to know. “Something fancy, looks like.”

She reaches over and chucks his tie. It is a nice tie, black, silk, gray swirls covering the fabric. His smile is bashful.

“Yes, I guess. I work for S.T.A.R Labs, doing scientific research.”

“You mean like white lab coats and bunsen burners and glasses?”

“Sure, uh, yeah. I do have a lab coat. It’s got my name stitched into it and everything.”

Iris gives in to the urge to touch him, lightly running a finger over the left side of his chest, like his name would be stitched into his suit jacket.

“I can see it,” she says, “the lab coat instead of this jacket, glasses on the edge of your nose, your hair all over the place.”

“How’d you know I wear glasses?”

“Didn’t. But it’s a fantasy of mine.”

“Science nerd in a lab coat and glasses?” he reiterates, just to be sure.

“Yes,” she answers, “cultivated right now.”

When the realization of what she means hits him, his eyes grow wide and he tries to speak, stumbling over whatever he means to say. It is true, that she can see this tall, lanky thing in a lab coat, long fingers wrapped around cool glass, glasses covering his face from whatever shoots out of one. It’s unexpected, that it turns her on, but it does.

“I…” he sits up straighter in his chair, adjusts his tie. She looks at his hands, at the way they caress the silk of his tie, at the way the other taps his thigh. His hand is mere inches away from where her legs are still crossed near him and she wonders if they’re soft or if they’re a little calloused from how much he uses them.  

“Is this, um, a part of the room?” He asks.

She tilts her head in question.

“The nice words? The um, thing about me in an overcoat?”

She blinks, surprised by the question. “Oh you don’t believe me?”

“It’s not just that, it’s…” He tugs at his hair. “Girls like you don’t normally go for guys like me.”

“Girls like me?”

“You know, gorgeous, confident,” he waves a hand, gesturing to her. “And god, have you seen you? It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“You’re cute, Barry Allen,” she tells him, meaning it. “And maybe you’re not all smooth and suave. But do you know how many men that come in here and are like that? Who think that they’re god’s gift to, I don't know, _life,_ and think that I should be grateful they’re spending their time here.”

He doesn’t seem put off by her slight outburst. Instead, he does that thing where he looks at her like he’s assessing her, like he’s trying to figure who she is, who she _really_ is.

“Is it like that a lot?” he asks.

“More often than not.”

“Then why do you do this?”

She doesn’t know why but his questions catches her off guard. She stands up, suddenly uncomfortable in her own skin. She feels underdressed, though not in the way that has to do with her clothes, or lack thereof.

“Why do you want to know?” she wonders. “You trying to save me, Barry?”

“No, no, no of course not. I don’t think you need saving.”  His long fingers run along his face. “I just want to know, I guess.”

“Hmmm.” She flips through another song,  _bitch betta have my money_ , forgetting that she had filtered the playlist to Rihanna. “And is that why you got the room?”

“Wait,” Barry stands up and steps across the room. “What?”

“Is that why you wanted to come back here with me? To ask me questions like a science experiment? Did I seem to be the easiest?”

“No, wait, no.” He steps closer. “I’m sorry. I’m not doing this right. I only meant that it’s you I wonder about. I want to know _you._ ”

She flips through another song ( _na na na, come on)._ She doesn’t let on that she’s moved by his words, doesn’t allow him to see that it affected her, what he said, the way he said it. It  reminds her that it’s been a while since a man claimed to want to know her.

“Jade…”

The sound of her stage name is like a bucket of water drenching her, bringing her back to reality. Of course he doesn’t really want to know her. How can he? He doesn’t even know her real name.

She glances up at him and, though the change is subtle, she thinks Barry realizes the difference in her now.

“How about a dance, Barry?” she says, because it’s not really a question. She is Jade, she’s a dancer, and this is what he’s paying her for. Those pretty, kind eyes mean nothing.

He blinks. “Um, okay. Sure. You want me to?” he gestures towards the chairs.

“Yeah. Have a seat. Take off your jacket. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Right.” He goes to do as told, pulling his jacket from his arms and tossing it onto the empty chair. He sits back down, long legs stretched in front of him.

She finds a song by Janet Jackson that she likes, that’s sexy, and she presses play. The sound fills the room and she can feel Barry’s eyes on her. The piano is smooth, the horn like velvet, and Janet is even smoother when she starts, _In the thunder and rain._

She needs to feel detached, from him at least, so she glides across the floor to him, her body snaking slow, the music thrumming through her. When she steps in front of him, in the space between his feet, she turns in a circle so that he back is facing him. She can’t see his expression when she shakes her hips, ( _any time, and any place, I don't care who's around)._ She can’t guess at what he’s thinking when she drops into his lap, but the way his hands grip the side of the chair gives her an idea.

She’s only a verse in when she realizes that she doesn’t want to lose the connection, doesn’t want to actually detach from Barry. It’s when she decides that she misses his face--already? How? _What is this this?_ \-- and she wants to watch his reaction to her. So she turns and takes pleasure in the fact that he has to drag his eyes up her frame.

When she straddles him, she can feel him hard beneath her. Under the guise of the dance, she rocks herself on him, forward and back. He tries to hide the groan he emits under his breath but she’s so close to him that she hears it. It makes her look at him, for the first time since she started this. Janet still croons  _(dancin on the floor, feeling the slow groove, my mind is startin to burn, with forbidden thoughts)_ and Barry is looking at her like she is a star. Like she is lust and love and some _deity_ all wrapped in brown skin and black fabric and iridescent sequins.

His eyes are more blue right now, the green a faint circle around his irises, and there is so much heat there, they’re almost navy. His hands hold on to the sides of the chair but if he feels half the way she does, he itches to touch her, to slide those long fingers over her smooth, bare skin.

“Barry,” she whispers, and she doesn’t know how he hears her over the music, but he does. “Do you feel this too?”

She doesn’t have to clarify for him; he nods.

“This is weird, right?” Because it _is,_ right? That here is this boy she wants to take home? That she wants to make breakfast for? That she might even want to date, if he is even as half as kind as he appears.

“I,” Barry’s voice is deep, throaty. “I’m okay with weird.”

Iris leans down and kisses him. She moves toward him slowly, giving him time to stop her if he wants, giving him time to bring her to her senses. He doesn’t. He lets her press his lips to his. They’re just as soft as she had imagined, maybe softer. The first kiss is tame, just their lips and the arrythmic throbbing of her heart.

She leans down to kiss him again and this time he meets her, leaning up to capture her mouth. Everything one initially thinks upon meeting Barry Allen is disproved by this kiss. It is pressing, exacting, a kiss meant to taste, to _savor_. His mouth moves against hers and she follows his lead. His tongue flicks over her lips, tracing the bottom before prodding her to open up. Her eyes close as she opens for him. He tastes good, a little like tequila, a little bit sweet too.

Her hands clutch at the hair at the nape of his neck. He kisses her with fervor, his tongue fighting for and maintaining dominance. He licks at the roof of her mouth, runs confidently against her own tongue. She cannot help the moan she emits against his lips and it only makes him kiss her harder.

Then he touches her and if Iris has ever before doubted the connection one could make with a stranger, there is no longer a question. He grabs her by the waist, his hands so big that they nearly touch in the middle. His hands are _hot_ through the fabric of her bodysuit and she feels weak, like she can’t think, like she can only breathe as long as he’s kissing her.

When she moans again, he pulls back and they both inhale deeply. They stare at each other, Iris inhaling when he exhales, his lungs contracting when hers expands. She thinks she feels lightheaded. It would be the only reason that she opens her mouth to say,

“My name is Iris.”

“Iris,” he breathes, reaching up to touch her. He tucks a peice of hair that’s fallen out of her bun behind her ear. “You’re beautiful.”

She takes a deep breath. “Is it weird that I want you to come home with me tonight?”

This time, Barry shakes his head. “No. But I’m okay with that too.”

Her own chuckle is the last thing she hears before he kisses her again.

 

This time, she dances for him. When Iris  goes out to dance her last dance of the night, it’s with the intention of doing what she always does. She expects the faces to muddy as they always do, assumes that she’ll pretend it’s her and her mirror again. But the music starts, slow and sexy. She hears the piano and she spins around the stage, hips undulating to the bass. The light hits her, makes her dress shimmer.

_I like it when you lose it._

_I like it when you go there._

_I like the way you use it._

_I like that you don’t play fair._

The  beat drops and so does she, knees bent as she rocks. And then she sees him. He’s almost directly in front of her, green eyes ablaze and she can’t look away.

Her arms snake above her head and it’s for him. She bounces her ass and it’s for him; so is the wink she shoots him before she climbs the pole.

_When we fuck._

It doesn’t occur to her to look away. Because on his face, there is lust. He likes the way her legs spread; he likes the tricks she can do on the pole. There is lust on his face, but there is something else too. There is awe; there is astonishment. There is _reverence._ Most importantly, though, there is no judgement.

So Iris dances for him and she thinks she likes it.

************

Barry is standing at the door waiting for her when she pushes through the back door, changed into a pair of yoga pants and a purple cropped sweater. One of the bouncers has walked her through the door and she waves at him, knowing that he won’t leave until she’s safely in her car and has driven away, even with Barry walking with her.

He smiles at her when he sees her, a bright smile that comes to him freely, and Iris knows that the warmth that spreads from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes has way more to do with him than the heat from the late June night.

“You ready?” she asks him.

“Yep.” He takes her bag from her and tosses it over his own shoulder.

“Then let’s go,” she says, and because she wants to, she reaches out and grips his hand in hers.

Her car is parked further back in the lot and they walked together until they reach her newer model Kia. Explaining the new car to her dad had been difficult and she still doesn’t think he quite believes her story. She unlocks the car with her keychain and Barry places the bag on the back seat before he folds himself into the front seat. The last song she was playing starts again when she turns her car on, and she turns the volume down so it isn’t blasting. She pulls out of the parking lot.

Her apartment is only ten minutes away from the club. She drives smoothly through the empty streets and it’s nice, Barry silent beside her. He hums along to the music, nods his head too, and she smiles to herself and begins to hum as well.

When she parks, she waits for him to grab her bag from the back before grabbing his hand and pulling him towards her door.  She unlocks the door with her free hand and they walk

“Nice place,” he says, looking around. She sees it through his eyes: the large red couch that’s the focal point of the room; the two soft cream side chairs with coordinating throw pillows; the huge painted canvas that sits above her fireplace. Her favorite thing is the wall length bookcase that covers the far wall, teeming with her favorite titles.

“Thanks,” she grins at him. “The money at my job is not the worst.”

She drops her keys into the bowl by the door and steps out of her shoes.

“You can just place that bag on the table.”

“Will do.”

He drops the bag on the counter and then stuffs one of his hands in his pocket, looking around.

“Would you like some coffee, Barry?”

He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand and smiles sweetly at her. “Sure.”

She goes into the kitchen and gets a pot started. She watches him from her spot. He seems looser now, more at ease in his lank, and in his limbs. She wonders how much of that might have to do with this thing between them, this strange pull that exists between them. Part of her does want to just take this at face value. He’s a cute guy who’s attracted to a cute girl; they have sex and it’s done. But another part of her knows that there is a reason he is the first person she’s ever brought home.

When the coffee is done, she pours two mugs, one with several splashes of sweet cream, and she walks back into the living room. Barry is standing by the bookshelf--she’s not surprised by this in the slightest--and she goes to stand by him.

“Here you go,” she calls out, getting his attention. Her turns with a slight jump, looking up from the book in his hand.

“Oh, thanks.”

“I take mine black but something tells me you like yours a little sweet so I added cream.”

His smile is appreciative as he takes the mug from her.

“You’ve got a lot of books here,” he says. “This is an amazing library.”

“Thanks.” She drinks from her mug and takes a minute to savor the smooth taste of the coffee. “Which book are you looking at?”

He shows her the cover, _How to be a Police Officer._

“Thinking about becoming a police officer?”

Iris laughs out loud. “That ship has sailed.”

“Wait, really?” Barry asks, laughing too.

“Yeah. My dad is a detective for CCPD. Growing up, though, he was still a beat cop. But it had looked so amazing to me: being brave and strong, going out to save the city. I decided that I was going to be a cop too.” Her voice is more wistful than sad. “Dad shut that down fast.”

“He doesn’t want you doing something so dangerous?”

“You hit the nail on the head.” She takes the book from him and flips through it absently. “I don’t think I would have made a good cop, though.”

“I think you could probably be anything you wanted to be.”

He says it matter-of-factly.

“You mean that, don’t you?”

He lifts his shoulders. “I mean, yeah. Seems pretty obvious to me.”

Her response is to put the book back on the shelf.

Barry drinks from his mug. “So does your dad know what you do now?”

“Oh boy. No, he doesn’t. Dad would kill me if he knew.” She shivers just thinking about it. “Wally would too.”

“Wally?”

“My brother. He’s an Engineering junior at CCU.”

He nods in understanding.

“I imagine they suspect something,” Iris tells him. “Other than a  grant that I’m getting from my internship, I don’t have another job. I only do this one night, sometimes two, a week, but you’d be surprised at what some people will shell out.”

“Oh, I doubt I would be,” he mumbles. When she tilts her head for clarification, he adds, “My friends paid $400 just so I could talk to you.”

Iris concedes, “fair point.”

By some unspoken agreement, they both turn and start towards the sofa. She sits first, in the middle, and he has no choice but to sit right next to her.

“So what about you?” Iris asks. “Are your parents proud? S.T.A.R Labs is a big deal.”

The turn of his mouth is bittersweet. “I imagine they would be, if they were here.”

Iris recognizes the sorrow in his voice. “When did they pass?”

“When I was 9. Car accident.”

“Barry, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” He gives her a passing smile.

“I was about that age too,” she tells him, “when cancer took my mom.”

He reaches over and grabs her hand, allowing them the moment to share in their hurt.

They sit for a while, silent, drinking from their coffee mugs. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but Iris can admit that she doesn’t know what to say. She feels anxious, sitting here with him now. Being alone in her apartment with Barry feels somehow more intimate. Her apartment looks, it feels more feminine with him there: the flowers in the vases on her side tables more delicate, the soft red of her couch beneath his hands more elegant. It makes _her_ feel that way too, soft and exquisite.

She puts her mug down on her coffee table and shifts, turning to face Barry. He is already looking at her, penetrating in the way that he does. She likes to think that there is a string that binds them. It is the only way that she explain how they come together, the way they both lean forward at the same time. Barry has the good sense to put his mug on the table before they meet. It is, _arousing,_ the way he wastes no time tasting her. She feels the press of his lips and then his tongue, the sure swipe that has her closing her eyes against him. He leans forward, moving a hand to her face, tilting his head for better access. She nips at his lips playfully, tempering the sting with the tip of her tongue. Barry growls and leans forward again. She falls back as he does, until her back hits the couch.

These kisses are harder, as Barry shifts to hover above her.  She finds herself clutching at him, at his arms straining beneath his button down, at his waist, the hard muscles at his side tight under Iris’s grip. He places one hand above her head and the other he uses to feel her with. He tips his finger along her jaw, down the side of her neck where she knows he can feel the _thump thump, thump thump thump_ of her heartbeat. He fingers the width of her collarbone, his touch so light she squirms beneath him. He follows the path of his fingers with his mouth, kissing where he touches, tasting the skin there too.

When Barry moves to touch her waist, the heat of his hands on her makes her blank out for a moment. His tongue traces a pattern at a soft spot on her neck and she widens her legs against the feeling. The act plants Barry’s hard body between her thighs and she undulates beneath him, pelvis to pelvis. She sinks into the mattress.

“Can I?” Barry pulls away to ask her. She nods, even though she doesn’t know what he’s asking because, yes, yes he can. She only realizes he’s pulling her sweatshirt over her head when he taps at her arms so he can pull it off. She hadn’t bothered to put on a real bra when she left the club so her breasts are immediately bared to him, full and heavy, her nipples hardened.

Barry looks down at her. He doesn’t move for several beats.

“I’m dreaming aren’t I?” His eyes trace the length of her. “This has got to be a dream.”

Iris reaches out to grab the hand holding on to the back of the couch. She covers her right breast with it.

“Do I feel real?”

“You feel like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”

In the morning, Iris will have time to decide how she ends up completely naked with Barry’s pretty face between her thighs. She remembers his tongue on her breasts, the way he traces her dark areola before he sucks at her nipples. She remembers how her body responds, her sex throbbing when his hips push into hers. He kisses down the center of her front: deep, open-mouthed kisses, with teeth and tongue. Her skin is wet from his mouth, and faintly purple  from his mouth too, and the heat she feels between her legs make her moan out his name.

It is probably this, the way she says _Barry_ in a whisper, like a promise, that has him pulling her tights from her hips. She lifts so he can pull them down her ass and from her body, one leg at a time. He rubs his hands along her hips, over the lush curves of them, and then he grips the meat of her thighs, spreading until she’s open before him.

She imagines how she looks in front of him: bare, the proof of her arousal coating her lips. She should feel too exposed to him, but she can’t, not with the hungry, heated look in his eyes. Especially not when he takes his thumb and rubs down the center of her.

“Bar…”

He does it again, this time pressing his thumb into her. Iris hisses, hips jerking against his thumb.

“ _Oh.”_

Barry pulls his thumb out of her and sucks her from his skin. He glances up at her. “You taste…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he licks at her with the whole of his tongue. Iris grits her teeth.

“I just..”

She doesn’t know what he wants to say, why he even keeps trying to speak, but he breaks off again. He licks her once more and this time it’s into her, really tasting her. His grip tightens on her thighs and he really dives in, _feasting_ on her. His tongue dances inside her body, a tango up her slit, a salsa back down. Her hips move on their own accord, rotating against his face, joining his dance, and he just leads, tongue gliding along her labia, spinning around her clit, but never quite _there._

The feeling is unparalleled, nothing like Iris has ever experienced before. Her thighs quiver while her body _gushes_ , growing wetter the more he eats her. And she sings for him, she does, his name an eloquent song from her lips. _“Barry, oh Barryyyy.”_

Iris knows her climax is coming before it does. The signs are in the point of her toes, how the feeling travels to the quake of her thighs. Her back arches off the sofa and she grabs at whatever her hands touch, the edge of the couch, a fistful of his hair. She listens to the wet sound of his mouth on her, the noise practically obscene. He pushes two fingers inside of her and she falls apart, screaming out “oh my fucking goooodddd,” as continues to finger her.

She has to push him away, scooting up to prohibit access. He sits back on his haunches, face shiny with her juices. When she can breathe again, she looks at him.

“I want you naked, Barry. Now.”

He is happy to oblige. He pulls at his tie and she reaches over to help him unbutton his shirt. She fumbles on a couple buttons in her haste and then gives up, reaching for his pants. Together they get him out of his shirt, throwing it across the living room. His belt comes next, his shoes, his pants, all in this spontaneous strip tease that leaves him naked before her: tall and strong, his sex thick as it stands at attention, those gorgeous moles marking his skin. The sight of what was beneath that suit makes her melt: her body flooding at the thought of him inside her.

She grips his shoulders and turns him so that his back is to the couch. She pushes him down and he sits. And then she climbs on top of him, meeting his gaze.

“You’re beautiful too, Barry.”

He brings her down to kiss him. He still tastes a little like her and it’s pleasant, the taste of him and her together. He caresses her back as she opens for him, his nimble fingers tipping, warm and silky, down her spine.

He figures it’s time when she starts grinding against him, rubbing her sex on him, on the heat and solidness of his dick. Iris moans at the contact, the sound from deep in her throat. He grabs the condom he’d pulled from his pocket earlier and rips the foil packet with his teeth. He slides the latex on.

Iris plants another kiss on his lips and then opens for him, lining him up at her entrance.

Barry pauses her in her descent. He drops one hand to her hip, squeezing her flesh. With the other, he reaches up and grabs her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him.

“I don’t want this to just be tonight, Iris.” His voice is clear, gaze steady, and if Iris hadn’t before wanted that, she absolutely would now.

“Okay,” she whispers, though her voice is just as steady. “Okay, Barry.”

Then she slides down on him and, for the first time, Iris feels full.

Her walls expand to accommodate him, tightening back as she sinks lower, and lower. When he is all the way in her, when he is tapping at her womb, she moves. It is a slow wind of her hips, like when she was dancing earlier. Barry lets her do this, lets her lift up and grind back down, riding him in short, easy strokes. For a while he lets her control him, lets her set the tempo, the song like _you feel so good inside of my love, I'm not gonna stop no no no_ inside her head. He lets out a steady stream of whispered groans, of “you feel so good, so, so, _fuck,”_ and she likes the sound of his voice like this, deep and throaty and little bit guttural.

She’s not expecting it when he grabs her ass in the whole of his hands and spreads her cheeks. The moves somehow makes her sink even lower on him, even fucking lower, and the sound she makes when she feels him at the bottom of her stomach is almost something like a mewl.

“Jesus, Barry,” she breathes, bouncing on him. “It’s so good; you’re so..”

“No, that’s you,” he says. “It’s fucking you, Iris.”

She looks down at them, at the sight of them together. It just _fits,_ she thinks, these two opposites: the brown of her skin and the white of his; the thick slide of his length inside her warmth; the dancer and the scientist.

When she comes this time, it’s with both of her hands clutching his shoulders and his arms wrapped around her waist. It’s with her staring into his eyes and their lips only a breath’s width apart. The tightening of her belly, of her sex as she grips him, milks him. He pounds up into her, right on the cusp of her orgasm, quick, hard pounds. And then she feels the throb of his sex as he pulses, his own orgasm coming fast and hard.

They stay wrapped around each other for a long while, basking in their afterglow, basking in one another. She doesn’t know how long they lie like that, but when they separate, it’s comfortable.

He plants a kiss on her forehead, on her nose, on her lips, and then tells her “you’re amazing.”

“That’s all you, Barry Allen.”

He pulls her down for another kiss, this one longer, the taste of him slick and hot in her mouth. When it ends, he traces her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

“No, Iris. That’s us.”

 

************

Iris wakes as the sun rises, streaming through her sheer black curtain. She stretches against her bedsheets, the delicious ache running through all of her. There is soreness in her thighs, she feels it when she shifts, and Iris smiles, knowing that last night was real. Until she turns and Barry is no longer beside her. She sits up, looks around the room at the tangle of her comforter that has fallen off her bed.

“Barry?” she calls, climbing out of the bed. She takes a sheet with her, wrapping it around her body as she walks into the living room. He’s picked up her clothes and placed them on the arm of her sofa, the same clothes he had pulled from her body in surprisingly aggressive movements before he had tasted her with teeth and lips and tongue, before he had pushed hard and slick inside of her. But all traces of him are gone now, except for his tie that hangs off of one of the chairs at her breakfast nook.

The sinking feeling that settles in Iris is so strong that she physically jolts, stepping back into her bedroom. Of course no promises had been made between the two of them, but she wonders how he was able to kiss her like he _meant_ it, how he could have whispered those things in her ear, the _god, you’re beautiful; i could stay right here forever,_ and then just leave her without saying goodbye.

She tries not to stereotype the men she meets in bars, tries not to fall into the same habits that men have when it comes to her and her job. But she _had_ thought he was different, had thought he meant it when he said he wanted to see her again. She had thought he’d seen her as more than just her body.  He’d seemed so nice, _kind_ even, and it makes her stomach hurt that she has misjudged him, how her instincts have failed her so spectacularly. Journalist, her ass.

“Oh, fuck him,” she mumbles to herself. It’s not like this is the first time. She decides to shower, stepping under the hot spray. She rubs the scent of him from her skin, rubs even more vigorously at the places where he’s marked her: teeth bites on her hips, purple bruises on her stomach, on her chest from where he sucked skin into his mouth. She washes and conditions her hair, wants to forget the way he tangled those fingers into the long strands and pulled when he fucked her from behind.

When she gets out, she throws her wet hair into a tight bun on her head and  dresses in bike shorts and a CCU hoodie. Pulling on socks, she walks into the kitchen with the intention of making breakfast and wallowing on the couch all day, catching up on whatever is on her Netflix queue.

What she doesn’t expect is for Barry to be standing in the kitchen, surrounded by plastic bags full of food. He’s changed clothes; maybe even showered. It annoys Iris to say that Barry Allen looks even better in the light of the day. He’s wearing a pair of black joggers and a white t-shirt and his hair isn’t dry all the way so it’s sticking up all over the place, curling and twisting in no actual pattern. He looks relaxed, a contented expression on his face.

She comes to a stop in the hall walkway and watches as he begins to pull things out of the grocery bags: eggs and milk and bacon. He glances up when he hears her walk into the living room and his smile is blinding.

“Hey, um, hey,” he says. “You’re up.”

“Yeah,” her voice is faint.

“Sorry I left and didn’t lock your front door. But I wanted to grab my car and pick up some things for breakfast.”

“Oh no, it’s, uh…” she steps further into the room, placing her phone on her breakfast nook. “No, it’s okay.”

“Wait.” He pauses, one hand pulling a tomato out of the bag. “Iris?”

He drops the tomato on the table and walks around to stand in front of her. He’s hesitant, stepping to her slowly, his eyes searching her face. She wonders how it is that he can read her so well already.

“Did I overstep?” he asks and there is only concern there. “Is this not okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I can… I just thought I’d make you breakfast.”

When she doesn’t say anything immediately, he takes a step back.

“I’ll just…” He makes to turn around, probably to leave, and it makes no sense, she _just_ met him, but she knows she wants him to stay.

“Wait, Barry.” She throws her hand out to stop him, grabbing onto his shirt. He is warm and so she steps even closer to him, wanting to feel that heat next to her.

“Iris, is everything okay?”

“No, everything is fine. I just,” She takes a deep breath. “I thought that you’d left, this morning, without saying goodbye. And I know we just met, and you made no promises to me, but I thought we...”

“Iris,” his voice is soft when he interrupts her. He steps closer to her and she can’t move, doesn’t want to. He reaches up and softly grips her chin between his thumb and his forefinger, making her meet his eyes.

She really likes his face, likes the way she can’t exactly tell if his eyes are blue or green, likes that she can count the moles that pepper his face; she especially likes that she knows that they _are_ everywhere, that when she traces them with her tongue, he shakes and squirms and grows solid against her thigh. She likes how pink his lips are, what they feel like on her skin.

“Iris,” he says her name again, caresses it, the word like velvet on his tongue. “We did. Whatever you think, whatever connection you think we made, we did, right? Yes, we just met and if I’m overstepping anything, if it’s too fast and breakfast is too much, and you just want me to leave, I will.”

He steps closer to her until there is nearly no space between them. He smells good, like clean soap and something else, something warm and faintly earthy.

“But Iris, you are the absolute most beautiful person I have ever met in my life. And I want to know everything about you…”

“Everything?” Her smile is relieved and wider than she thinks it’s ever been.

“Anything you want me to know.”

Iris leans up and kisses him. He responds immediately, kissing her back hard. He tastes like his toothpaste and something vaguely sweet, what she recognizes as just the taste of him. He licks at her mouth and she opens to let him in, moaning when his hands tighten at her waist. She pulls away, breathing heavy.

“Bedroom?”

Even as he nods, he asks, “What about breakfast?”

“Later. So much later.”

And as further enticement, she pulls her sweatshirt over her head, dropping unceremoniously to the floor. Her breasts spill out, full and heavy like the first time, nipples peaked for him. His eyes bug and she hopes she never gets used to him looking at her like she spun the moon. She turns toward her room and starts down the hall.

“You coming, Allen?”

He dashes after her. “I absolutely am.”

 

_Like a river flows surely to the sea_

_Darling so it goes_

_Some things are meant to be_

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it to the end, I thank you for giving it a shot! This is the result of being out of work sick for two days.  
> I tried something new with this one and I hope it wasn't all over the place or like, a complete bomb.  
> If there's something that you like about it, do please leave a kudos or a comment. Those are always appreciated!  
> (Sorry for any typos!)


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